The Empty House Read online

  The tone of her voice implied that Eustace Philips was something of a joke, a joke that she and Virginia shared.

  “He thought perhaps I might go out to Lanyon and have tea with his mother.”

  “Isn’t that marvellous? Pure Cold Comfort Farm.” It began, very lightly, to rain. Mrs. Parsons glanced at the lowering sky and shivered. “What are we doing, standing out here in the wind? Come along, tea’s waiting…”

  Virginia thought nothing of the shiver, but the next morning her mother complained of feeling unwell, she had a cold, she said, an upset stomach, she would stay indoors. As the weather was horrible nobody questioned this, and Alice laid and lit a cheerful fire in the drawing-room, and by this Mrs. Parsons reclined on the sofa, a light mohair rug over her knees.

  “I shall be perfectly all right,” she told Virginia, “and you and Alice must just go off and not bother about me at all.”

  “What do you mean, we must just go off? Where is there to go off to?”

  “To Falmouth. To lunch at Pendrane.” Virginia stared blankly. “Oh, darling, don’t look so gormless, Mrs. Menheniot asked us ages ago. She wanted to show us the garden.”

  “Nobody ever told me,” said Virginia, who did not want to go. It would take all day to get to Falmouth and back again and have lunch and see the boring garden. She wanted to stay here and sit by the telephone and wait for Eustace to ring.

  “Well, I’m telling you now. You’ll have to change. You can’t go out for lunch dressed in jeans. Why not wear that pretty blue shirt I bought for you? Or the tartan kilt? I’m sure Mrs. Menheniot would be amused by your kilt.”

  If she had been any other sort of a mother Virginia would have asked her to listen for the telephone, to take a message. But her mother did not like Eustace. She thought him ill-mannered and uncouth, and her smiling reference to Cold Comfort Farm had put the official stamp of disapproval upon him. Since his departure his name had not been mentioned, and although, during dinner last night, Virginia had tried more than once to tell Alice and Tom about her chance encounter, her mother had always firmly overridden the conversation, interrupting if necessary, and steering it into more suitable channels. While she changed, Virginia debated what to do.

  Eventually, dressed in the kilt and a canary yellow sweater, with her dark hair brushed clean and shining, she went along to the kitchen to find Mrs. Jilkes. Mrs. Jilkes was a new friend. One wet afternoon she had taught Virginia to make scones, at the same time regaling her with a great deal of gratuitous information concerning the health and longevity of Mrs. Jilkes’s numerous relations.

  “’Allo, Virginia.”

  She was rolling pastry. Virginia took a scrap and began, absently, to eat it.

  “Now, don’t go eating that! You’ll fill yourself up, won’t have no room for your lunch.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to go. Mrs. Jilkes, if a phone call comes through for me, would you take a message?”

  Mrs. Jilkes looked coy, rolling her eyes. “Expecting a phone call are you? Some young man, is it?”

  Virginia blushed. “Well, all right, yes. But you will listen, won’t you?”

  “Don’t you worry, my love. Now, there’s Mrs. Lingard calling … time you was off. And I’ll keep an eye on your mother, and give her a little lunch on a tray.”

  They did not return home until half past five. Alice went at once to the drawing-room, to inquire for Rowena Parsons’s health, and to tell her all that they had done and seen. Virginia had made for the stairs, but the instant the drawing-room door was safely closed, turned and sprinted down the kitchen passage.

  “Mrs. Jilkes!”

  “Back again, are you?”

  “Was there a phone call?”

  “Yes, two or three, but your mother answered them.”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, she had the phone switched through to the drawing-room. You’ll have to ask her if there are any messages.”

  Virginia went out of the kitchen, and back down the passage, across the hall and into the drawing-room. Across Alice Lingard’s head, her eyes met and held her mother’s cool gaze. Then Mrs. Parsons smiled.

  “Darling! I’ve been hearing all about it. Was it fun?”

  “It was all right.” She waited, giving her mother the chance to tell her that the telephone call had come through.

  “All right? No more? I believe Mrs. Menheniot’s nephew was there?”

  “… Yes.”

  Already the image of the chinless young man was so blurred that she could scarcely remember his face. Perhaps Eustace would ring tomorrow. He couldn’t have phoned today. Virginia knew her mother. Knew that, however much she disapproved, Mrs. Parsons would be meticulous about such social obligations as passing on telephone messages. Mothers were like that. They had to be. Because if they didn’t live by the code of behaviour which they preached, then they lost all right to their children’s trust. And without trust there could be no affection. And without affection, nothing.

  The next day it rained. All morning, Virginia sat by the fire in the hall, pretending to read a book, and flying to answer the telephone each time it rang. It was never for her; it was never Eustace.

  After lunch her mother asked her to go down to the chemist in Porthkerris to pick up a prescription. Virginia said she didn’t want to go.

  “… It’s pouring with rain.”

  “A little rain won’t hurt you. Besides, the exercise will do you good. You’ve been sitting indoors all day, reading that silly book.”

  “It’s not a silly book…”

  “Well, anyway, reading. Put on some wellingtons and a raincoat and you won’t even notice the rain…”

  It was no good arguing. Virginia made a resigned face and went to find her raincoat. Trudging down the road towards the town, the pavements dark and grey between the dripping trees, she tried to face up to the unthinkable possibility that Eustace was never going to ring her.

  He had said that he would, certainly, but it all seemed to depend on what his mother said, when she would be free, when Virginia would be able to borrow the car and drive herself out to Lanyon.

  Perhaps Mrs. Philips had changed her mind. Perhaps she had said, “Oh Eustace, I haven’t got time for tea parties … what were you thinking of, saying she could come out here?”

  Perhaps, having met Virginia’s mother, Eustace had changed his own mind about Virginia. They said that if you wanted to know what sort of a wife a girl was going to turn into, you looked at her mother. Perhaps Eustace had looked and decided that he did not like what he saw. She remembered the challenge in his unblinking blue eyes, and that final bitter exchange.

  “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”

  “I wouldn’t let you.”

  Perhaps he had forgotten to telephone. Perhaps he had had second thoughts. Or perhaps—and this was chilling—Virginia had misconstrued his friendliness, unburdened all her problems, and so aroused his sympathy. Perhaps that was all it was. That he was sorry for her.

  But he said he would telephone. He said he would.

  She collected the prescription and started home once more. It was still raining. Across the street from the chemist stood a call-box. It was empty. It would all be so simple. It wouldn’t take a moment to look up his number, to dial. She had her purse in her pocket, with coins to pay for the call. It’s Virginia, she would say, and make a joke of it, teasing him. I thought you were going to ring me up!

  She almost crossed the road. At the edge of the pavement she hesitated, trying to pluck up the courage to take the initiative in a situation which was beyond her.

  She imagined the conversation.

  “Eustace?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Virginia.”

  “Virginia?”

  “Virginia Parsons.”

  “Oh, yes. Virginia Parsons. What do you want?”

  But at this point her courage turned on its heels and fled, and Virginia never crossed the road to the telephone box, but c
arried on up the hill with the rain in her face and her mother’s pills deep in the pocket of her waterproof coat.

  As she came in through the front door of Wheal House she heard the telephone ringing, but by the time she had got her wellingtons off the ringing had stopped, and by the time she burst into the drawing-room, her mother was just putting down the receiver.

  She raised her eyebrows at her breathless daughter.

  “Whatever’s wrong?”

  “I … I thought it might be for me.”

  “No. A wrong number. Did you get my pills, darling?”

  “Yes,” said Virginia dully.

  “Sweet of you. And the walk has done you good. I can tell. Your cheeks are quite pink again.”

  The next day Mrs. Parsons announced out of the blue that they must return to London. Alice was astonished. “But, Rowena, I thought you were going to stay at least another week.”

  “Darling, we’d love to, but you know, we do have a very busy summer to put in, and a lot of arrangements and organization to be seen to. I don’t think we can sit here enjoying ourselves for another week. Much as I would adore to.”

  “Well, anyway, stay over the week-end.”

  Yes, stay over the week-end, Virginia prayed. Please, please, please stay over the weekend.

  But it wasn’t any use. “Oh, adore to, but we must go … Friday at the latest I’m afraid. I’ll have to see about booking seats on the train.”

  “Well, it seems a shame, but if you really mean it…”

  “Yes, darling, I really do mean it.”

  Let him remember. Let him phone. There wouldn’t be time to go out to Penfolda but at least I could say goodbye, I’d know that he’d meant it … perhaps I could say I’d write to him, perhaps I could give him my address.

  “Darling, I wish you’d get on with your packing. Don’t leave anything behind, it would be such a bore for poor Alice to have to parcel it up. Have you put your raincoat in?”

  This evening. He’ll ring this evening. He’ll say, I am sorry but I’ve been away; I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a moment; I’ve been ill.

  “Virginia! Come and write your name in the visitors’ book! There, under mine. Oh, Alice, my dear, what a wonderful holiday you’ve given us. Sheer delight. We’ve both adored it, haven’t we, Virginia? Can’t bear to go.”

  They went. Alice drove them to the station, saw them into their first-class carriage, the corner seats reserved, the porter being deferential because of Mrs. Parsons’s expensive luggage.

  “You’ll come again soon,” said Alice as Virginia leaned out of the window to kiss her.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve loved having you…”

  It was the last chance. Tell Eustace I had to go. Tell him goodbye for me. The whistle shrilled, the train began to move. Ring him up when you get back.

  “Goodbye, Virginia.”

  Send him my love. Tell him I love him.

  By Truro her misery had become so obvious with sniffs and sobs and brimming tears that her mother could ignore them no longer.

  “Oh, darling.” She put down her newspaper. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Nothing…” Virginia stood at the window swollen-faced, unseeing.

  “But it has to be something.” She put out a hand and put it, gently, on Virginia’s knee. “Was it that young man?”

  “Which young man?”

  “The young man in the Land-Rover, Eustace Philips? Did you break your heart over him?” Virginia, weeping, could make no reply. Her mother went on, reassuring, gentle. “I wouldn’t be too unhappy. It’s probably the first time you’ve been hurt by a man, but I assure you it won’t be the last. They’re selfish creatures, you know.”

  “Eustace wasn’t like that.”

  “Wasn’t he?”

  “He was kind. He was the only man I’ve ever really liked.” She blew her nose lustily and gazed at her mother. “You didn’t like him, did you?”

  Mrs. Parsons was momentarily taken aback by such unusual directness. “Well … let’s say I’ve never been very fond of his type.”

  “You mean, you didn’t like him being a farmer?”

  “I never said that.”

  “No, but that’s what you mean. You only like chinless weeds like Mrs. Menheniot’s nephew.”

  “I never met Mrs. Menheniot’s nephew.”

  “No. But you would have liked him.”

  Mrs. Parsons did not reply to this at once. But after a little she said, “Forget him, Virginia. Every girl has to have one unhappy love affair before she finally meets the right man and settles down and gets married. And this summer’s going to be such fun for us both. It would be a pity to spoil it, yearning for something that probably never even existed.”

  “Yes,” said Virginia and wiped her eyes and put her sodden handkerchief away in her pocket.

  “That’s a good girl. Now, no more tears.” And, satisfied that she had poured oil on troubled waters, Mrs. Parsons sat back in her seat and picked up the newspaper again. But presently, disquieted, disturbed by something, she lowered the paper and saw that Virginia was watching her, unblinking, an expression in her dark eyes that her mother had never seen before.

  “What is it?”

  Virginia said, “He said he’d phone. He promised he’d telephone me.”

  “Well?”

  “Did he? You didn’t like him, I know. Did you take the call and never tell me?”

  Her mother never hesitated. “Darling! What an accusation. Of course not. You surely didn’t think…?”

  “No,” said Virginia dully as the last flicker of hope died. “No, I never thought.” And she turned to lean her forehead against the smeared glass of the train window, and the rocketing countryside, together with everything else that had happened, streamed away, for ever, into the past.

  That was April. In May Virginia met up again with an old schoolfriend, who invited her down to the country for the week-end.

  “It’s my birthday, darling, too super, Mummy says I can ask anyone I like, you’ll probably have to sleep in the attic, but you won’t mind, will you? We’re such a madly disorganized family.”

  Virginia, taking all this with a pinch of salt, accepted the invitation. “How do I get there?”

  “Well, you could catch a train, and someone could meet you, but that’s so dreadfully boring. I tell you what, my cousin’s probably coming, he’s got a car, he’ll maybe give me a lift. I’ll speak to him and see if he’s got room for you. You’ll probably have to squeeze in with the luggage or sit on the gear lever, but anything’s better than fighting the crowds at Waterloo…”

  Rather surprisingly, she duly arranged this. The car was a dark blue Mercedes coupé, and once Virginia’s luggage had been crammed into the over-loaded boot, she was invited to squash herself into the front seat, between the girlfriend and the cousin. The cousin was tall and fair, with long legs and a grey suit and hair that curled in ducks’ tails from beneath the brim of his forward-tilted brown trilby hat.

  His name was Anthony Keile.

  6

  Travel-worn and tired, and with all the problems of Bosithick still to be faced, Virginia got out of the train at Penzance, took a lungful of cool sea air, and was thankful to be back. The tide was low, the air strong with the smell of seaweed. Across the bay, St. Michael’s Mount stood gold in the evening sun, and the wet sands were streaked with blue, where small streams and shallow pools of sea-water gave back the colour of the sky.

  Miraculously, here was a porter. As they followed him and his barrow out of the station Nicholas said, “Is this where we’re going to stay?”

  “No, we’ve got to drive over to Lanyon.”

  “How are we going to drive?”

  “I told you, I left my car here.”

  “How do you know it hasn’t been stolen?”

  “Because I can see it, waiting for us.”

  It took some time to pack all their belongings into the boot of the Triumph. But in the end it wa
s all piled in, crowned by the cardboard crate of groceries, and Virginia tipped the porter and they got in, all three of them in the front seat, with Cara in the middle, and the door on Nicholas’s side firmly locked.

  She had put down the hood and then tied a scarf around her head, but the wind blew Cara’s hair forward all over her face.

  “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “Not long, about half an hour.”

  “What does the house look like?”

  “Why don’t you wait and see?”

  At the top of the hill she stopped the car, and they looked back to see the view, the lovely curve of Mount’s Bay, still and blue, enclosed in the warmth of the day that was over. And all about them were little fields, and ditches blue with wild scabious, and they went on and dropped into a miniature valley filled with ancient oak trees, and a stream ran beneath a bridge, and there was an old mill and a village, and then the road twined up on to the moor again, and all at once the straight bright horizon of the Atlantic lay before them, glittering to the westward in a dazzle of sun.

  “I thought the sea was behind us,” said Nicholas. “Is that another sea?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Is that our sea? Is that the one we’re going to use?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Is there a beach?”

  “I haven’t had time to look. There are certainly a lot of steep cliffs.”

  “I want a beach. With sand. I want you to buy me a bucket and spade.”

  “All in good time,” said Virginia. “How about taking things one at a time?”

  “I want to buy a bucket and spade tomorrow.”

  They joined the main road and turned east, running parallel to the coast. They left Lanyon village behind them and the road which led to Penfolda, and they climbed the hill and came to the clump of leaning hawthorns which marked the turning to Bosithick.

  “Here we are!”

  “But there’s no house.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Bumped and jarred, the car and its occupants lurched down the lane. From beneath them came sinister banging sounds, the great gorse bushes closed in at either side, and Cara, anxious for their provisions, reached back a hand to hang on to the grocery carton. They swung around the last corner with a final lurch, ran up on to the grass bank at a frightening angle, and stopped with a jerk. Virginia put on the hand-brake, turned off the engine. And the children sat in the car and stared at the house.